


Winter's Song

by GaboBlue1004



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Universe, F/M, Family, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Post Season 7, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-04
Updated: 2017-10-04
Packaged: 2019-01-08 23:41:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12264450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GaboBlue1004/pseuds/GaboBlue1004
Summary: Arya. One, two, three… a thousand times Arya.He had repeated the name every day, whether it was inside his mind or in a whisper in the dark. Whether he was awake or asleep; the name haunted him in his nightmares, in his daydreams. Every single thought was accompanied by her name until it became a prayer which then turned into promise, until it turned out to be an oath and then a song.A song of winter.





	Winter's Song

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you like it!  
> I'll be waiting your opinions.
> 
>  
> 
> This goes for my beloved sister. May our hearts always be close...

* * *

 He was at the forge that day. Had been since early in the morning; and given the merciless cold, he decided it was a better idea to start shortly after dawn, not stopping until dusk.

Although he greatly appreciated Starks’ hospitality, he was far from comfortable with the icy gales that whipped on his skin, so accustomed to southern heat. Besides, he needed to set a pace; once started it was better not to interrupt.

It was admittedly odd to be there, in that freezing forge, in _that_ place of all places in the Seven Kingdoms. Not so many years earlier, being just a child in King’s Landing, he wouldn’t have dared to dream about forging Valyrian steel for an upcoming war , inside a bloody castle so far in the North. Actually, now that he was into that, there were _plenty_ of things he had never dared dreamed back then when he was just a boy –like befriending a princess disguised as a boy, or being the bastard son of a dead King.

He shivered, all of a sudden, feeling the frostiness flying within the air, piercing through the thick leathered-layers of his jacket.

“You’re a wimp.” said a voice from behind, making him jump slightly out of surprise.

He turned his face just to find a small and thin silhouette standing by the threshold, posture flawless, light and alluringly precise.

It took him a couple of moments to fully react at her presence.

When did she appear there? He wondered, startled. When exactly did she become as silent as a shadow? Or was she always like that? _No,_ he remembered, a ghost of nostalgia aching in his gut. Back then, when they were on the road, he was _always_ able to tell if she was near him. It was like a natural response, to feel her proximity. Even at that precise moment, a lifetime away from those days, he wasn’t sure if it was because of her breathing, the delicate, yet firm rumor of her steps hitting the ground or just her heat, which he got use to whenever they were side by side… and they always _were_ side by side.

Gendry reminded himself that the silhouette –the _shadow_ – standing before him was barely what was left of the little girl he had met so many years ago; little Arry was now far away, lost among tears, and blood, and misleading goodbyes.

Her big eyes scrutinized him, and he realized with a sting of guilt and concern that he was not able to read her expression anymore.

Gendry then remembered that a few moments ago she had said something to him, and was probably waiting for an answer. And he felt suddenly uneasy. How was he supposed to talk to her, looking straight into her eyes? The more time he spent in that place, the more time she kept staring at him like he _owed_ her something –which he did, _everything_ , in fact -, the more difficult it was to believe all of that. And not because of the dragons, not because of the white walkers; what he found almost impossible to assimilate was _her._

For how long did he believe she was murdered along with her mother and brother? How many nights did he spend wide awake just wondering what they had done to her? He imagined all kind of calamities. There were times when he had to suppress every thought about the subject, because it just sickened him to think she could have been tortured, mutilated, damn all the gods, he even thought she could have been ravished, or skinned –he forced himself to blink, in order to push away those images from his mind.

He just stared back at her direction, without a word, not even daring to look into those eyes, just concentrated in one point between her head and the door, utterly unable to speak back, as if words were taken from him.

She gave a cautious, gracile step forward, expression blank, as usual since they met again at the gateway.

“Are you deaf?” she insisted, but her voice was hardly playful, and he could have sworn he saw that neat mask of serenity cracking just a little as she took another step.

 “I said you are a _wimp_.” she asserted, with a voice so silky, it gave him goosebumps.

Gendry stood still, feeling his nerves clenching against his muscles, and his heart beating in a limbo between numb and berserk.

It was _her_ , he thought. She was close enough for him to distinguish the brown strays of hair crowning her head.

There she was, his friend, his comrade… his lady. She was there, _alive,_ and she was talking to him, maybe for the first time in days, or weeks, or whatever was the time since his arrival to Winterfell, he didn’t keep track.

“I may be, m’lady.” he answered, out of the blue, tilting his head a little and fixing his eyes on the floor beneath her feet _“I may be whatever you want me to be_. _”_ he thought, but didn’t dare to speak it out loud.

The response seemed to take her somehow aback, as she lifted her eyebrows almost imperceptibly.

He waited for her to speak again, not expecting anything in particular. After all, she was princess in Winterfell, sister to the King in the North. And him? Nothing but a blacksmith, a warrior if he wanted to be vain... The _bastard_ of a family that now was doomed. He was also the one who had abandoned her in the worst moment one can abandon a friend, the one who turn her down when she offered him just what he have always wanted.

And for that reason he wasn’t surprised by her reaction when they met after so many years apart.

He was not expecting to see her –that was for sure. For years he believed she was nothing but a rotting corpse in the waste, or perhaps a rotten purulent head stuck in some spear of the Twins. Gendry would wake up in the middle of the night, sweating cold, tormented by nightmares and ominous images. The nightmares were cruel and violent, and in every single of them, Arya would just look at him, a silent plead screaming in her eyes, but he would stay froze and watched as they slaughtered her, and he would wake up at the realization it wasn’t really different from what had actually happened.

So he never expected more than the cold, stinging indifference that he got as her eyes met his when he arrived along with Jon and everyone else.

Now she was there, and hopefully for him, her eyes were staring at him out of anger. And it just hit him, when he felt a stung of excitement in the pit of his stomach, that he rather have her raging over his mere existence than not concerned at all.

“I am _not_ your lady.” she muttered, and even though her voice was low, he couldn’t help to feel a cold shiver downing his spine at the fierceness in it.

He wanted to smile at her, as he used to, but chose to restrain “Then, Your Grace.” Gendry said, bowing with his head low “My princess…” but before he could start, her voice resonated once again.

“Cut it.” She sentenced, her grey eyes searching his, vigorously “I won’t take filth. Especially not from you.” She assured, and by the way her voice lashed, he knew for sure she was not fooling around.

Still, Gendry remained quiet, with his eyes fixed on the floor beneath her boots, too stunned to even try to meet her eyes, just waiting. Waiting anxiously for her to demand the answers he was not sure he could afford.

“Why didn’t you tell him?” There it was, what he had been waiting since the moment he fully understood she was alive. Questions, though that in particular was not the one he was expecting.

He looked down at her. Arya stared back at him, and even if her expression remained as plain as a piece of clay, he could see the turmoil inside her eyes.

“You haven’t tell him either.” He stated, quietly, looking away from her almost immediately.

The girl made a sound from the back of her throat, much like a grunt, and Gendry’s heart felt like dying a slow death at the familiarity of that gesture. He had the impulse to do what he had wanted from the moment he descried her face in the distance; to just run towards her and hold her tightly and never let her go away from that idiotic hug he would’ve caught her into. To squeeze her, and pinch her cheeks just to see her annoyance, and delight  at the sight of her grumpy face as he used to do, maybe even lift her up in his arms just to ascertain how much she had grown since they got split apart.

He wanted to do _so many_ things that it was absurd, and they were running out of time as winter was there, along with bloody white walkers, and the end of times, and he had been wasting the few days he had left doing the opposite of what he desired to –like avoiding her gaze when all he really wished for was to stare at her for hours, not stopping for a moment – and recklessly retorting her questions.

“I talked first.” she snarled, voice gelid and sour “Answer me.” And he knew it was much more than a demand.

He let out a sigh, a silent one, glimpsing the beam of his breathing as he did. How was he supposed to explain what had been on his mind when Ser Davos brought him to Jon Snow, the King in the North? But most important of everything – _her_ brother. Not only her brother, but her _favorite_ brother.

“Your Grace –…” he tried to excuse himself with a steady voice, but all he got was a piercing, _deadly_ gaze from her.

“ _Do not_ call me that.” she cut, baring her teeth with what he could recognize as nothing more than utter ferocity. _A direwolf_ , he thought, astonished, blue eyes enthrally glued on grey flames. And it was then that he wondered whether he was dizzy or plain insane by getting so provoked by her deadliness.

Gendry then bowed his head, lips now forming a thin line while trying _way_ too hard to hide his flutter “Then how should I call you, m’princess?” he questioned, bowing slightly at the inquisition.

The alluded gave a step in his direction, although she didn’t seem as sure as she always did, as if she was containing herself too from doing something. Her face was no longer that cold mask of imperturbability, but a broken shell through which he was able to distinguish a trace of _something_. He wasn’t quite sure what exactly this _something_ was, but he certainly recognized it as old familiar.

“You call me by my name.” she answered, glaring at him. She gave another step ahead, and he knew –for the seven hells, he knew – she was searching for his eyes, infatuatedly “And you look me in the eyes.”

He felt it, in the pit of his gut, in the core of his entrails. The uneasiness, the _fear_. And he decided he wasn’t ready to face her after all this time, and he also decided he was, in fact, _a wimp_ ; all his life he craving for a family, and when the person for whom he cared the most offered him one, he declined it. Even though at that time he believed he had good reasons, he turned down the possibility of being near the most wonderful girl in the Seven Kingdoms –in the whole world – just because he was too afraid of losing her amongst bloody social hierarchy. And all for what? To be sold out by the “family” he chose over her to a Red Witch that was really eager to seduce him, take his blood away from his body and why not? Maybe even burning him alive.

And then, after spending six damn years longing for Arya Stark, dreaming over her, praying all gods –old and new – that she was still there, somewhere, for him to have the chance to look at her fiery eyes at least one more time, and now that he had her in front of him, he wasn’t capable keeping her gaze.

“Look at me.” She bid, rising her voice.

Gendry stood froze, and he let out a sharp breath.

“ _Look at-”_

“How can I?” he hissed, feeling his throat tightening, eyes still fixed on the floor.

“…” the girl stood still, silent, waiting for him to explain himself.

“I left you.” Gendry admitted, hoarsely “I left you alone when you needed me.”

Silence. That was all he could hear. Not that he expected otherwise. In the end, he didn’t expect anything at all.

“No, you did not.” She asserted, and the certainty in her voice made him look up to her. She lifted her chin “They took you away” she avowed, pointedly, and something in the way her eyes glimmered made his stomach squirm painfully “They betrayed you. There was no way you could predict it, or avoid it.” Her voice was now a quiet whisper.

“Still.” Gendry countered “I failed-”

“No, you did not.” She repeated, calmly.

He felt an odd sensation at Arya’s rejoinder, as if his heart stung sharply, with needles all over it. That response from her was nothing like he had expected… nothing what he felt he deserved.

“Stop looking for excuses.” She then snapped, notably irked, approaching silently at him.

By that time, the fire had died, and the forge was as quiet as a graveyard, the nearby howls and night creatures crawling through the night as the only discernible sound.

“I am not looking for excuses.” He countered, finally meeting her eyes.

“Then why have you been avoiding me?”

Gendry looked away _once again_ , troubled “I wasn’t avoiding you.”

“Liar.”

Arya’s eyes were staring, intently, and he knew they perceived every single trace of lie he was spitting out in his defense. A liar she had called him, and maybe he really was a liar at that moment –the truth was too complicated to handle out. But she was stubborn enough to seize him and steal the truth away from his mouth; perhaps she was no longer the little girl he had met, but at least she was definitely still a total pigheaded – _pain in his arse –_ and that thought steadied his heart in a way that he found soothing.

“Been busy.” He retorted, suddenly annoyed by her cunning.

“ _Liar.”_ Her voice gave no place for discussion, and when he noticed the look of her face, a pike of nostalgia stabbed his stomach.

Right there, in front of him, she was no assassin, no stranger. In that moment, he realized, breathlessly, she was just Arya. The same Arya he had known, maybe more broken, maybe bolder –if that was even possible -, but she was still Arya of house Stark.

And he suddenly felt this _urge_ crawling underneath his skin, and it was so bloody _baffling._ It was _her_ , the source of it, but he could not put a finger on what was this exactly about.

Gendry couldn’t remember when had he felt like that before, but it was beyond frustrating. It was like fire inside his innards –no, it was much more like a _hunger_. A strange kind of hunger, that was it, -that he had felt once, in a dream, the moment before it all turned out to be a hideous nightmare.

When he realized it, his eyes were now staring straight at Arya’s. One, two, three, four, _five_ entire seconds. Then it became a long moment, and it felt so forbidden that it was just as exciting. He had longed for it, to be able to look at her, at her big, clever eyes. He didn’t know how to swim and still he would gladly drown in them, not even fighting a little.

He looked at her and for a moment, he forgot all about guilt, and remorse, and just wondered why he hadn’t afforded himself to look at her in the days he’d been in Winterfell. Now that he was at it, it felt like a waste of time.

Arya kept his gaze, undeterred, almost insolently, and it just made it everything inside of him less bearable, but surprisingly she didn’t seem to notice. Instead, one of her eyebrows lifted in amusement, a cocky smile half-forming in her lips.

_Seven hells._ That was definitely _not_ helping his current situation.

“Oh? Now you are looking me.”

Gendry wanted to flinch but chose to keep staring, praying all gods to help him hide his bewilderment.

“See? It wasn’t that hard.” She teased, and for the first time in what seemed like a lifetime, he heard that playful tone he so had longed for the past years.

Oh, sweet gods, he thought, his whole body coining up at the rush of emotions, why was the world to end so soon?

“Where on seven hells have you been?” He blurted, in a deep, heavy sigh, feeling his chest lightening up so much he felt lethargic for a moment.

Her expression acquired a somber air, and the mask came back to place right where it had been moments ago “Braavos.” She said, vaguely, and he perceived the bitter uneasiness in her eyes.

Now _that_ was something he was not expecting.

“Braavos?” His grimace made her flicker a bit, but she recovered herself after a split second “How-?”

“I earned the right to be the one that questions.” She gave him an exultant grin, which he found painfully appealing.

Gendry looked at her, concerned, and for a small moment her mask cracked enough for him to glimpse an almost invisible trace of something that looked a lot like endearment in her eyes.

“I _will_ tell you” she granted, her eyes on his “I promise. But not today _._ ”

He nodded as a silent agreement.

Arya assented, then continued moving from one side of the threshold to another “Why didn’t you tell Jon?”

The man inhaled, resignedly. There was no point in denying anything anymore “I feared him.”

“What for?”

He shrugged, hesitant “His reaction.”

Silence. As if she was pondering his replies. Then she spoke once again, walking tentatively from one side of the threshold to another, hands clasped behind her back, straightened back.

“Is it true what they say? That you saved them beyond the Wall?” She tilted her head, looking genuinely curious.

Gendry shook his head. “All I did was run as fast as I could to get the message sent. No big deal.”

“You saved my brother’s life.” She stated, grave expression “It was a _huge_ deal.”

“…”

She stopped there and lift her gaze to meet his eyes. Three heartbeats after, she opened her mouth “Why did you do such a stupid thing?”

“What do you mean, m’lady?”

She rolled her eyes, fuming a snort “Why did you follow my reckless brother on a suicidal mission?”

That was either the easiest or hardest answer to give “Seemed like the right thing to do.”

“It was plain stupid.”

“It was worth it.”

“It better had.”

_“It did”,_ he assured _–_ she standing before him was the proof.

He wished he was braver. He wished he had said everything he wanted to say… that he had been waiting, year after year, for the right moment to make it up to her. That when Ser Davos asked him to go fight along with Jon Snow –the same Jon Snow for which she mourned everyday – it felt like a miracle to him. Because he would finally be able to pay the debt he had with her and her family… that maybe if he died fighting for the brother she loved so much, he would be able to see her one more time, even if it was in the afterlife. That when he was freezing to death in Davos’ arms, the only thought that was in his mind was _her_ , and only her, and how much he wanted to arrive wherever she was and apologize for letting her go. He wanted to tell her he had dreamt about her every night since he was taken away from her. Since he watched her walk away. But he was doing it _all_ wrong.

“Now tell me.” Her voice ripped him away from his thoughts and he turned his eyes to her “It’s something I’ve been wondering ever since I saw you crossing the entrance along with my brother and the rest of them.”

He waited, swallowing hard.

Arya opened her mouth, a broken gleam inside her eyes “ _Why_ Jon and not _Robb_?” Her voice cracked a little at the mention of the name –so slightly he almost missed it.  

Now, _that_ one question.

It seemed like he had been expecting it from the first day they met again –even before – and yet he had no idea about how to deal with the answer.

Was it because Jon Snow was a bastard just like him? No, it hadn’t been about that. Not at _that_ time, at least. Eddard Stark’s bastard and a commoner’s bastard were two different things, anyway… always had been. Except that he _wasn’t_ a commoner’s bastard. And that was the difference she was asking for…

“Robb would’ve accepted you.” Arya’s voice was hollow, and he saw her eyes went distant as she talked, the mask again in its place, locking down any trace of emotion from her face.

But he knew her better than that.

“You don’t know that.” He muttered after a moment, forcing himself to keep looking at her in spite of his own uneasiness.

“I _do_ know.” She rebutted as doggedly as he remembered her.

Her eyes caught his once again, mercilessly and it was the first time she saw him in that way, as if she were to assassinate him, to chop his arms off and tore him apart – _fierceness_ , burning like grey fire – “ _You_ didn’t know my brother. He was never like that. He would’ve accept you if he only knew...”

The blacksmith closed his eyes. He wasn’t one to doubt Robb Stark, especially not when Arya asserted things about him, but he knew enough of the world to understand that blacksmiths and highborn ladies were not likely to be friends. Let alone anything else – he shook his head, trying to get off those stupid thoughts from his mind.

“Not that it could possibly matter now.” She spluttered, sharply, gazing back at him, faceless once again “He’s _dead_.” She pronounced every word with the poisoned sting of a knife.

He _knew_. He knew better than she imagined. The Young Wolf was _dead_. Lady Catelyn Stark was dead as well. Both of them slaughtered at the Twins.

How could he _not_ know that?

There was a time when those words were stabbed in Gendry’s chest as daggers. He tried not to remember the numbness that came over him when he found out. Because, _gods_ , if they were dead, so was _she_. And if she was dead, what did _everything else_ matter?

“Wouldn’t had depended on him.” He said, gently, not daring to get closer to her, even if he _craved_ to “Just as it still _doesn’t_ depend on Jon.”

“What do you mean?” She snapped back, and a blaze of anger flickered in her eyes “You are here. _He_ brought you here.”

“Need me to forge the steel. Right now ‘m useful enough.”

“You _saved_ them.” Arya took two steps ahead, and her whole body was searing with fury and something else he wasn’t able to recognize “You saved them _all_. You are here to fight a war beside us. Jon would never-”

“I’m still a bastard.” He retorted, and suddenly it wasn’t that hard to look her in the eyes. _Robert Baratheon’s, but a bastard still_ he thought, bitterly.

Arya grunted once again, and by then, the mask was completely cracked “Seven Hells!” She sworn, her tone raging and oddly enough, Arya Stark being utterly frustrated was way less terrifying than a completely serene Arya.

 “Who cares about that anymore?! Jon’s a bastard, remember? And he is also King in the North. At least until Daenerys Targaryen claims the Iron Throne.”

“Believe it or not, there are still people who care about it.” He asserted, matter-of-factly.

“Like who?” Her voice was biting, and her gaze acute.

The mask was now shattered, its pieces all over the floor of the smithy, the remains in Arya’s face glowering with defiant.

Gendry grimaced at her tiredly.

 “The world’s about to _end_. The army of the death is coming. _Winter_ is here. I think this people might be more concerned about surviving.” She spattered, her voice recovering its previous volume. “And why would they matter, anyway?” Her eyes flickered strangely as she spoke through whispers. She caught his gaze “I am no longer a child.” And with that, her grey eyes flared with determination, and he abruptly forgot how to breathe while staring at them.

He gulped, harshly, and his mouth got dried. _Gods_ wasn’t she a child anymore.

_What on seven fucking hells was that feeling?_ He wondered, holding his breath for him not to shatter apart in the floor like Arya’s mask of composure did a few moments ago.

She gave a step ahead and it was until then that Gendry realized how close had she got since she entered the forge.

“They can’t tell me what to do. They _won’t_ tell me what to do.” She asserted, still looking up directly to his eyes, voice steady, and might he be damned, it sounded like a _promise._

Gendry remained there, unable to move, just gazing at her, dumbfounded. She was close, just _inches_ away from him, staring straight into his eyes, with no trace of shyness in them. Her gaze radiated determination and fierceness.

_Arya…_ vibrant, and young, and marvelous in so many ways.  She was there, right in front of him and she was so, so, so, _so damn_ pretty. Always been, even with her hair plastered in her head and her face stained with dirt and sweat. So much it didn’t take him so long to realize she was actually a girl _“A pretty one.”_ He had thought then, idly.

He gasped heavily, trying to focus on something other than her eyebrows, or her eyes, or her heart-shaped face. He failed, of course, as his eyes were irremediably glued to her, standing as petite as she was, confuting every corner of his dazzled brain.

For a long moment, they stood there, in front of each other, not moving at all. And the air felt heavier, yet sweeter, and there was a voice in the back of his head, screaming something he could not understand amidst the ferocious beating of his heart.

What was with her eyes? He had always find them nice, warm, like bonfire inside the woods. He could always get warm by looking at them and find some comfort by knowing that, even though hunger, and cold, and hopelessness, he had her eyes to look at. But there was something different about them that night at the forge. Maybe it was the warmth –it was less cozy and more _burning -_. Gendry didn’t know the reason… he had a hunch that it had something to do with the realization that she was now eight and ten and no more a little girl.

“ _Gendry._ ” She called, slowly – _so_ slowly – and he barely catch her jaw clenching.

There was a grave sparkle in her eyes, profuse, deep and obscure, but he didn’t manage to find the emotion that flared in her ivory, pretty face.

He flinched at the sound of her voice saying his name. For how long did he believe he would never hear her voice calling for him ever again?

“ _Arya._ ” He responded, like he was possessed, delighting at the taste of her name in the tip of his tongue.

_Arya._ One, two, three… a thousand times Arya.

He had repeated the name every day, whether it was inside his mind or in a whisper in the dark. Whether he was awake or asleep; the name haunted him in his nightmares, in his daydreams. Every single thought was accompanied by her name until it became a prayer which then turned into promise, until it turned out to be an oath and then a song.

A song of winter.

“I thought I would never see you again.” She spoke first, and her voice was soft, so soft it made him quiver.

He caught his breath, a sharp pain forming in the center of his chest before replying, harshly “I thought you were dead.”

“I was.” She said, absently “Maybe even now, I am dead. Or will be, very soon…”

Gendry almost whined at the idea.

_No._ No, for gods, _no._ He had not found her to lose her again.

“You’re _alive_.” His voice was hoarse, and it cracked when he spoke “You’ll remain alive.”

“You don’t know that.” She retorted, half smiling, but the gesture didn’t reach her eyes.

The blacksmith tensed his jaw and looked her straight into the eyes “I know it.”

Arya took another step closer, and now she was _inches_ away, her eyes calmly fixed on his chest. In the back of his head there were thousands of notions, some of them dull, like how much he should stink at that moment, and how improper it was for her to be there, alone with him in the forge, specially that late at night. The others were even more troublesome, such as her proximity, and the warmth of her breathing through the layers of clothing.

“If I die,” she started, looking up to meet his eyes “know that I’ll take _hundreds_ of those unholy creatures with me. _That_ I assure you.”

Gendry gasped heavily, unable to move, unable to properly _think_ , the words spilling through his mouth like spittle “You won’t die. If you do, better take me with you, m’lady.”

At that, Arya closed her eyes, slowly, an unreadable expression on her face.

The moment after that, he felt the tepidness of her palms, resting steadily on his cheeks, pressing them conscientiously. He released a strong breath of surprise.

Before he could ask anything, her eyes shut open, her mask there once again, as if it was never gone “You’re here.” She said, cautiously “It’s really you.”

He looked at her for a long moment, scrutinizing her concernedly as her eyes still stared at him vacantly, though he believed to spot some wariness in them. Her hands remained where they were, one on each cheek of his, and the warmth was _so_ intoxicating, Gendry was not able to ponder his actions as he would’ve in any other situation.

So he placed his own hands on hers, gently, and let himself feel the skin of the back of her hands as he caressed her knuckles absently, drinking her in.

“I’m here.” He repeated, smiling a little “And so are you, Arry.”

And they stayed like that for another while. Maybe it was a few seconds, maybe hours. To be honest, it could’ve been years. The white bloody walkers could come, Cersei Lannister could burn them all with wildfire, Daenerys Targaryen’s children could turn the whole world into ashes and he would stay looking at her, without a word, just utterly mesmerized by her. Her braveness, her fierceness, her grey eyes… if the end of the world caught him like that, he would die a happy death.

And then the moment went longer as he felt it.

It was subtle, at first… like a soft warmth in the center of his guts, glowering mildly as he looked into her eyes, but that grew stronger and stronger with the passing of seconds until it became an irrepressible fire burning him alive, feeding on the intensity of those eyes that stared at him, and on her touch, firm, yet tender, on his face.

Gendry’s mind was dizzy, his breath edgy and his senses sharpened. It was overwhelming him, it was choking him, and he needed to stay concentrated… maybe he was too tired. How many days had he spent in that forge? Since he arrived to Winterfell, so… three days. Yes, yes, maybe it was that… three days working ‘til dusk, and her sudden irruption. He was just tired.

But when he search into her eyes for some kind of clue, some kind of explanation, all he found was ravaging fire. And, for gods’ sake, he ought to just _burn_. Because winter was there, and he hated cold, and all he needed was to blaze with her, maybe just a little?

_“Since when?”_ An inner voice inquired, confused.

He didn’t know. At that point it felt like he had wanted her since the moment he was born, maybe even before. As senseless as it sounded, it felt like that… maybe he had wanted her so much that he, somehow, forced destiny to arrange their encounter. Maybe he was to blame for all her tragedy, maybe… now he was delusional, he noticed during a moment of sanity.

_No._ He said to himself, closing his eyes in order to settle his breathing and stop his shudder. _“It’s her”_ he reminded himself, thwarted _“It’s just Arry…”_ but it wouldn’t help to calm his absurd inner ignition. On the contrary, it just worsened it.

Gendry was no stranger to that feeling… he had actually felt it a couple of times though it haven’t been necessarily _pleasant_. Not at all; every time it had ended up with him quivering at rather _uninviting_ memories.

But that time, with _her_.

He _shouldn’t_ … he was certain of that. He shouldn’t be feeling something like that. Not for her, not _that way_.

Because he was already aware of the fact that he loved her. Had accepted it ever since he was held prisoner at Dragonstone and then learnt to embrace it when he heard the happenings at the Twins, when he believed he had lost her forever. Actually, it had been easier for him to assimilate that she would always be his missing part than the fact that he was the son of late Robert Baratheon.

But he’d _never_ pictured Arya like _that_ … well, not since the Red Woman. Because everything that came from _that_ felt forbidden and morbid, and _she_? She was the opposite of all that. She became a reverie, a spare… a distant, soothing melody resounding in the depths of his heart. And if he ever thought of her in those moments it was due to regret or loss rather than… rather than _lust._

There was a million reasons for him to put out that fire and still he couldn’t help but want to enter the flames.

His eyes examined hers, seeking for a sign. All he needed was a trifle of doubt and he would stop that feeling at once.

But all he encountered was that mask, and a small trace of _something_ that he half wanted –half feared – it to be _willingness_.

“You’re quivering.” Arya whispered, pressing her hands softly against his skin “Are you afraid?” She asked, tilting her head.

He shook his, fervently.

 “You’re lying” She asserted, caustically, still staring straight into his eyes “I _know_ you are scared. It looks in your eyes.”

For a whole instant, Gendry said nothing, just drowned himself inside her gaze a little longer, feeling unsteady at her sharp perception. Then he took a deep breath and answered “I may be, m’lady.”

“Of me?” She questioned, her voice diaphanous.

And before he could protest and deny it, he noticed something glimmering inside her eyes, something he recognized from another time, _another life._ Because even if her mask was on, he would’ve recognize that look in her eyes even if she wore another face. And his heart ached at the memory of her looking at him like that, the moment their paths split apart.

“Will you run away from me?” The question hit the walls of the smithy, quiet, plain, but he sighted _something else_ inside it.

Gendry’s heart stopped at the sole thought of it. He caught her eyes once again, earnestly, and pledged “I would _never_ do that.”

“But you _do_ fear me.” She stated, her expression undecipherable.

“I _don’t_.” He avowed, his voice resolute as it had never been in his entire life.

“Then what are you afraid of?”

“ _Myself_ ” he thought heatedly. He was terrified of his own impulses.

He had just got her back, he didn’t want to screw everything up. Not like that, not _there._

“I’m scared _for you_ , m’lady.” He admitted, gruffly “Fear I might do stupid things…”

Arya’s hands tightened on each side of his face, cupping it firmly to make him look at her in the eyes “You _can’t_ hurt me.” She assured, speaking slowly, and the touch of her hands was feather against his skin.

“Then I’d be the one who’ll end up hurt.” He muttered, breathlessly.

Arya stood on her tiptoes, leaning forward to reach his ear, provoking a mighty shiver to down his spine “I would _never_ hurt you.”

Gendry breathed a ragged gasp. _Might gods help him_ for now he was truly _doomed,_ or maybe just plainly _insane?_ Because, he _wanted_ so bloody much for Arya to _hurt_ him. She could take him, and tear him apart, and he would be glad.

Gendry felt the air thickening around them, and his senses blurring.

She could have asked for anything. _Anything_ , and he would’ve given it to her, no hesitation. She could have murdered him, and he would’ve never resisted.

He was truly _hers_. Had known it for years, but the sudden confirmation caused his knees to falter.

And they remained there until it became unbearable, but the moment before he gave up, he took a last glance at her. She was still looking at him, and there was still fire inside the grey ocean of her eyes…

_Arya,_ he repeated in his thoughts, painfully, remembering why he was there, at Winterfell, and that overwhelming rush of blissfulness that assaulted him the moment he  saw her standing beside her sister...  _alive_.

She was his friend, his lady… Arya Stark was _much more_ than just a woman for him to take. She was his family –the only family he’d ever had.

_“I shall make it up to her._ ” He had sworn that a long time ago.

But he wasn’t done yet. He _needed_ to be done with what he was doing. He _needed_ to prove himself, and give her something more than just his spoiled heart and his broken soul.

_A featherbed, yellow silk and a crown in her head_.

“You shouldn’t be here, Arya.” Said Gendry, in an aching whisper, indulging a last caress on her hands before lowering them down to her sides with his own “It’s late.”

And she just looked at him, a cryptic glint in her gaze.

He let out a torn sigh, feeling his blood boiling inside his veins in a silent protest due to the loss of contact.

Gods, he was trying.

“You shouldn’t be here, either.” She finally said, steady voice, placing her hands behind her back once again and putting the mask on one more time “Jon’s been asking for you since yesterday. He said you barely leave here so he sent for you.” She explained, sitting herself on the anvil, casually.

“Steel ain’t gonna forge itself.”

Arya shrugged, checking idly on her cuticles “He wants you to join us at the Great Hall to have a meal.”

Gendry grimaced, incredulous “And he sent _you_ to get me?”

The girl lifted her arms again “I may had made my way here when I heard him complaining, but either way you should get a rest. Now that you’re done avoiding me, it may be a good thing for you.”

He almost let out a smile. He gruffed half-heartedly instead, “Not been…” he tried to reply, but was cut off by her annoyed voice.

“ _Wimp_ …” she condemned, solemn face, and a flutter of joy made its way through his stomach when he heard old Arry in her voice.

And he shut his mouth close, blushing a little.

Yeah, he’d been a _wimp_. Good thing she was a pigheaded little wolf.

After a few minutes of pretending to get back to his business, Gendry let out a breath of resignation and gave up, taking his work cloak off, being suddenly aware of the soot covering his face.

Arya was still sitting on the anvil, waiting for him while contemplating her own reflection on her little sword – _Needle._

“Will you tell me that story, m’lady?” He wanted to know, gesturing at _Needle_ with a smile.

Arya sheathed the sword back in its scabbard “Another long story I shall tell you about.” She answered, a malicious, unsettling smile forming in her lips “Guess I’m not the only one, _milord_?” And after that, she jumped off to the ground graciously, walking towards the door, spotless posture, leaving the forge and he completely gaped.

_“Did she just-?”_ He tried to make sense of what had just happened.

Hadn’t he been completely dumbfounded by her exit, he would’ve smile like a bloody moron. Or maybe he _did_ smile like a bloody moron?

Couldn’t be sure.

However, the only thing that was in his mind the rest of the night, was _her._ She and her wit, and her eyes, and everything about how long he had waited.

That night, Gendry stood awake, wondering how would he explain to her _everything_ that had happened since they separated, and shivered at the thought of telling her about the Red Witch, and explaining the whole story of his lineage.

He tried not to think much of the ravaging fire he’d felt inside himself while looking into her eyes, for the mere memory filled him with anxiety and yearning, but found himself recalling the touch of her hands against his face, and the fierceness in every word she had said anyway. As well as the sadness hidden amidst that mask of indolence she seemed to like so much. 

He had to wait, even if it felt like torture, for he needed to prove he was worthy. Of Starks’ trust, but most important,  _her_ trust. 

_“It doesn’t matter.”_ He decided.

He’d wait, as he had for the last years. Because, in the end of the world, what could possibly be the difference?

And then Gendry fell asleep at the soft hum of that song he’d been hearing all along while dreaming of better times. Times where he slept in the woods, next to a she-wolf, cooed by the stubborn beating of her heart, soothed by the warmness of her fatuous, quiet smile.

A grief’s song, a revenge’s song.

The song of that Winter that took its time to arrive.

**Author's Note:**

> So... as promised, here is my second fic in the Game of Thrones fandom. It is also about Gendry and Arya, and I loved every moment while writing this, hope it shows!  
> So... I'm posting this and it's almost dawn, so it might have some grammatical mistakes that I will gladly correct if you point them out for me.  
> I'm very excited about this project. Not sure if I'm gonna extend it, it may depend on the response, I guess. I would REALLY APPRECIATE if you read it and comment it. If you liked it, PLEASE let me know.  
> This is a story I hold close tomy heart, and your comments and opinions are really important to me!  
> ALSO: English is not my first language, so take that into account.  
> If I make another chapter, it may be from Arya's point of view, so tell me if you're interested ;)  
> REGARDS!


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